


Black As Midnight, Black As Pitch

by ladyblahblah



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bottom Steve, Choking, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has a darkness in him that he never wanted Steve to see, a darkness that longs to unleash itself on his all-too-perfect friend.  Steve's reaction when he discovers it, however, is far from what Bucky had always expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black As Midnight, Black As Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> Got a prompt for Bucky with a dark side that he wants to unleash on innocent, perfect Steve, who answers with nothing but love and understanding when Bucky's control finally snaps. Mostly I just wanted to write about Steve eagerly bottoming while Bucky takes him viciously apart. Title is taken from a quote from _Legend_ because . . . mostly just because.

 

It never used to be much of a contest between them.  Bucky had four inches and about fifty pounds on Steve by the time they both stopped growing—more than enough to put him down and keep him there any time he wanted.  More than enough to put him in his place, to bloody him up until he got it through his head that not everything could be fixed with plucky nerve and a can-do spirit.  Until that ever-present light went out of his eyes, until he stopped being so _fucking goddamned perfect_.  He never did.  Of course he didn’t, no matter how many times his fingers itched for it.  Steve was all he had; they were both of them all that the other had in all the world, and he couldn’t … not to him.  Not to Steve, however good it might feel.

Then the war.  The war, and Zola’s lab, and Erskine’s formula, and just like that everything was changed.  Tiny, fragile Steve had disappeared between one breath and the next, replaced by a man that only a behemoth or a madman might consider an easy mark.  Muscle and skill and endless physical strength to back up the spirit that had always been there, that still shone out of his eyes in that gentle, godforsaken light.  No longer someone who needed Bucky’s feeble protection, that last barrier blown away by whatever witchcraft Stark had worked on him; and when Bucky fell from the train, down and down to a deep and messy end, there was a part of him that was glad it happened before the roiling darkness in him burst free.  His life for Steve’s safety, and wasn’t that how it was always meant to be?

Except that isn’t how it happened at all.  Years of hell and heaven both, of giving the darkness in himself free reign as he had never dared before, feeling the freedom of it straining against the bonds that held him.  Cruelty given form, given _purpose_ , and it’s almost enough.  Almost, until he wakes again, new papers, new orders, take him out, beat him bloody.  And something in him rouses, rises up, that old familiar darkness given new life and growing greater than anything he’s ever known, while something else struggles feebly to hold it back, gaining strength from the shape of a jaw and the light in lost blue eyes and a voice saying, “Bucky, Bucky _please_ , please remember.”

He remembers.  Everything, eventually, and Steve is understanding.  All of them, they’re all _so_ understanding, even when they still don’t trust him.  He takes comfort in Natasha, who watches him with empathy but no compassion, whose own darkness always complemented his.  There’s no nagging worry, with her, no paralyzing fear of realization and disappointment.  Disgust.  She knows what he is as well as she knows herself; which is to say, not as well as she might like, but better than might be expected under the circumstances.

Steve … Steve watches him through careful eyes, eases his way but doesn’t push, refuses to let Bucky retreat into himself, into the friendly anonymity that New York has always offered.  He’s perfect—perfectly formed both in body and in spirit now, and willing to help Bucky with anything he needs.  An apartment, a wardrobe, the guarded trust of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who authorized his retrieval.  He finds the best burger joint in town for them to visit; he takes him to a grotty little restaurant for the borscht Bucky’s always loved, and sits there making disgusted faces at him the entire time.  Gets them tickets to a baseball game.

But what Bucky needs—what he’s always needed—is what he has now: Steve pinned against the kitchen wall of the tiny kitchen in Bucky’s bachelor apartment, eyes going wide as Bucky’s hand tightens around his throat.  His arm is stronger now than he ever could’ve imagined when they were kids, the first time he thought about how delicate the bones of Steve’s throat would feel with his fingers wrapped around it.  (It’s better than his last one, beautifully fluid and so responsive it nearly feels real.  Steve had almost socked Tony in the jaw for his questions, for the way he’d poked and prodded in a thoughtless way that Steve would never understand, even when the end result is the work of art he’s wearing now.  Steve had nearly hit him, and they’d all three of them known it, and the memory only makes Bucky squeeze harder.)

“Finally.”  Steve’s voice is the barest rasp, choked out past the crushing pressure that Bucky is putting against his windpipe.  “I was starting to think I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“I—”  Bucky stares at his hand; tries to relax his grip, but he can’t work up the will to let go.  “You’re so fucking … why the hell wouldn’t you just stay away?”

“You need me.  This.”  His chest is rising and fall in short, shallow breaths.  It’s all he can manage at the moment.  “It’s okay.”

“No.”  Despite his intent, Bucky finds himself crowding in closer, close enough to feel those weak breaths against his face.  “Whatever they did to me—”

“Doesn’t have anything to do with this.  You think I was blind?  I know you better than anyone, and I haven’t turned away yet.”  Steve’s hand lifts, settles carefully against Bucky’s waist, and the touch hits him like an electric current.  “You’re not gonna break me.”

“You don’t understand.”  The words come out in a snarl; he can already see the skin at Steve’s throat beginning to purple, and it appeases _nothing_ , only sends the darkness in him roiling higher.  “I _want_ to break you.”

Steve grabs Bucky’s belt to yank him in closer, and oh god Steve is _hard_ , eyes blown and heavy and still filled with that beautiful, infuriating light, with acceptance and with more that Bucky is afraid to examine. 

“ _You_ don’t understand,” he snaps back.  “I want you to try.”

Bucky’s mouth is crashing against Steve’s before he makes the conscious effort to move, teeth clashing until Bucky tastes blood.  His or Steve’s he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care; there’ll be time enough to see Steve bleed and know that he’s the one who opened his skin.  Right now there’s just the taste of him, the desperate gasp for air when Bucky’s hand finally relaxes, cool metal sliding over heated skin to fist in soft yellow hair.  Regulation cut; everything about Steve is regulation, by-the-book, and Bucky is going to tear him into pieces.

“Do you want me to struggle?” Steve finally manages to breathe against his lips, hips jerking forward in abortive little thrusts even as he makes an obvious effort to keep himself still.  “Should I … _Bucky_ …”

He can’t speak.  Speaking is attention taken away from the way his teeth feel sinking into the tender skin just below Steve’s ear, from the way the buttons on that hideously proper button-down he’s wearing tucked into pleated pants give way and scatter across the kitchen floor when Bucky pulls with enough force to rip the fabric.  There are knives nearby, two steps away in the drawer next to the sink, and for a moment his head goes dizzy and light at the thought—seeing Steve’s eyes track the blade as it slices his clothes away, the way they’d both hold their breath while they waited to see if that’s all that it would cut.  But he’s greedy for flesh now, for bruises blooming beneath his hands and mouth, for the red welts that form in the wake of Bucky’s blunt nails.  They won’t last, he’s almost certain; damage isn’t at home on Steve’s body anymore.  In the moment, however, they’re as intoxicating as the quiver and flex of muscle at each new abuse, as heady as the sight of Steve fully hard and leaking so much that a damp spot is spreading across the front of his slacks.

They make their way towards the bedroom with a series of shoves and snarls, until halfway across the living room when Steve finally offers resistance, pushes back just enough to make it a challenge, and the next time Bucky opens his eyes it’s to see Steve laid out on his bed beneath him, heart thundering beneath Bucky’s good hand as his left fists tight around Steve’s cock.  He’s shaking, trying to thrust into Bucky’s grip and pull away all at once; his shirt is hanging off of him in tatters; the wide, smooth expanse of skin across his chest and stomach is covered in bruises, scratches, bite marks.  A golden god brought painfully down to earth, innocence and purity corrupted, and trembling with the desire for more.

“It’s going to hurt more before we’re through.”  He presses hard against a mark above Steve’s navel, feeling his own pulse jump at the hiss that it engenders.  “I won’t go easy on you.”

It takes more than one try for Steve to speak, choked sounds out of a dry throat all that pass his lips at first.

“‘M not broken yet,” he finally manages, mouth tilted into a sly smirk, and Bucky falls on him in a renewed frenzy.

It’s a sight to behold, when he’s finished manhandling Steve into place (when Steve _lets_ him, a voice in his head reminds him; he’s letting this happen, letting Bucky take instead of simply giving, and it’s almost too much to bear): broad shoulders pressed against the mattress, the ass that qualifies as a work of art in its own right flushed bright red from slaps and bites, Steve’s cock hanging heavy and still hard between his spread legs.  There’s a bottle waiting in the nightstand; Bucky likes things slick when he gets himself off, and he spares a moment for regret that he’ll have to forgo that now.  Seeing Steve squirm is worth it, though, hearing the wild, half-pained noises that he tries to hide, face buried in a pillow and hands clutching frantically at the sheets as Bucky begins to stretch him.  Not too much, not too slick; heavy friction, so that Steve feels each push and drag of his fingers, opening him just enough that Bucky won’t have to struggle to get his cock in.  There are condoms in the drawer, as well, but he ignores them—he wants to feel every inch of this, wants to know that it’s his skin sliding roughly against Steve’s, wants to come deep inside of him and watch it leak out again in a filthy, vulgar mess.

When he does push inside, fingertips digging hard into Steve’s hips as he works his cock in with sharp, shallow thrusts, it feels like conquest.  Each cry that Steve lets out, torn between encouragement and denial, shaken and confused and yes, _broken_ , is like a drug.  Bucky starts to move for his own pleasure, long, hard rolls of his hips that have Steve scrambling to brace himself.  Fingers trailing down the long curve of his spine, metal gleaming in the fading light spilling through he window; he presses hard against the small of his back, forcing it to arch, and the new angle pulls a groan out of him.  He leans forward, curving around Steve’s body, teeth sinking into the muscle along his spine until he can feel the heat of blood beneath his tongue, blooming beneath the skin into a bruise that follows the imprints of his teeth, reduced to short rabbit thrusts into the tight warmth clenching helplessly around him.  His left hand slides around, grasping Steve’s cock again, stroking and pulling with a grip designed for pain as much as pleasure.  Steve’s skin is slick with sweat against him; when he spills against the sheets it’s with a shudder and a choked, almost frightened noise, as though he can’t quite tell if he’s coming or dying.

It seems to go on forever after that: fucking hard and fast into Steve’s pliant body; drinking in the occasional whimper and flinch as overstimulated nerves are relentlessly abused.  Bucky is unwilling to let go of the sight of Steve, sweet, pure, good, _perfect_ Steve bruised and exhausted, half-collapsed in his own sweat and come, but he can’t hold out forever, and with a final handful of sharp, brutal thrusts empties himself as deep inside Steve’s body as he can go.

Collapsed on the bed next to him, the afterglow doesn’t last long at all.  For the first time in memory he feels the hungry, grasping darkness in him recede; he sees Steve’s body and knows that he’s done what he’d sworn to himself he never would.  He’s sliding out of bed when Steve’s hand closes around his arm, stopping him.

“I need to get you cleaned up.”  Bucky’s voice doesn’t sound like his own, far away and hollow as he thinks of warm washcloths, of the first-aid kit stashed under his sink.  “There’s … it’s what you do.”

“Stay.”  Steve turns his head to look at him, his face unreadable.  “For a minute.”

It’s heaven and hell again, putting his arms around Steve, gathering him close and feeling gathered in in return.  Something inside of him is relaxing, easing, but he can still sense the darkness around the edges of his thoughts, can feel it in the way that his fingertips seek out the bruises on Steve’s skin.

“You still freaking out?”  Steve smothers a snort against Bucky’s shoulder and makes a contented, grateful sound when Bucky’s arms tighten around him.  “I’ve been broken worse than that before.”

Silence for a moment, but Bucky can’t resist for long.  “That a challenge?”

“Could be.”

“You’re nuts.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“It isn’t … I’ll talk to Dr. Godaire.  Maybe she can—”

“You were like this before.”  Steve doesn’t make any move to pull away, to look him in the eye, for which Bucky is profoundly grateful.  “I saw the way you used to look at me, before … well.  Everything.  I’d have let you do it then, too, back when you could’ve held me down; I’d have let you do anything you wanted.”

“Steve—”

“It’s not something they did to you.”  Steve does lean up now, propped on an elbow to meet Bucky’s eyes.  “It’s not something you need to fix.”  He shrugs, lowers himself back down.  “If we could do … this, though.  After.  I’d like it.”

“Yeah.”  Bucky rests his mouth against the crown of Steve’s head; not quite a kiss, just another point of contact as he breathes in the scent of him.  “Me too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, please feel free to follow me on [Tumblr](http://hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com) if you're interested in insights into my writing process and/or flip-outs over whatever fannish delight has caught my attention at the moment. ^_^


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